


cold girl fever

by siddals



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 10:09:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siddals/pseuds/siddals
Summary: Charlotte comes to Daniel when she's in need, but leaves too quickly for his liking.





	cold girl fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [congratsyouvegrownasoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/gifts).



> For the prompt "waking up" on tumblr. Set in the same imaginary S2 timeline as [A Widow's Toast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13415253)

When he wakes, Daniel's head feels heavy. It must be early, he thinks. In the first nights after he'd found Lady Repton, he'd drank until his head pounded the next morning. Now, having lost his first earnings and nearly swinging from a noose, he prefers to stay sober at the tables, to watch what's around him. Other men at the tables will assume, in any case, that an Irishman is further in his cups than any of his compatriots.

He's never slept easily, even when he was a boy. The slightest sounds disturb him. When he was young, he had been caught more than once wandering outside the house in the night, going nowhere in particular. His mother had said it was the sign of a restless spirit.

This time he is woken by the sound of footsteps, light yet distinct. It takes him a moment to situate himself, to remember who is with him and why.

Charlotte is in her shift, her hair a wild halo around her head. Her white dress from last night is slung over her arm, as she bends over to pick her stockings. His breeches, her wig, his coat are scattered across the floor, varying distances away from the bed.

She doesn’t seem to notice that he is awake as she gathers her things. She means to go, he realizes, his throat going dry.

He’s left Charlotte be in these last weeks, just as she asked him to. Whatever she thinks now,  _not to love or be loved_  or whatever nonsense she spouted at Quigley’s, is not his to interfere with. She was the one who came to him, last night.  _I need you now,_  and more fool him, he'd let her lead him away. He’d wondered, of course, why she came to him, what trouble she was in, but when he asked, she shushed him and kissed him and he’d taken her lead and said no more.

It had been different from their first night, in the garret. Then, he had been careful, tentative, wary of frightening her away. A beginning, or so he’d thought then. This last night was different, hungrier. He had tried not to wonder, as he moved inside her, if he would ever touch her again. 

“Charlotte,” he says.

She turns, surprised at first, then draws herself up straighter.

“You’re awake,” she says, her tone blank, “I didn’t realize.”

He pulls himself up to a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes.

"You were going to leave," he says.

"Yes."

"Before I could know that you were gone."

Her mouth tightens.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Charlotte, for the love of - “

Her eyes go sharp.

"I'm not  _yours_ , you know.”  
  
He blinks.  
  
"Jesus, I never said you were."

“I’ll come and go as I please,” she says flatly, bending over to pick up her wig from off the floor, “I’ve never flattered you or made promises I didn’t mean to keep. You’ve no cause for quarrel with me.”

He gets up from the bed, conscious of his nakedness as soon as he rises.

“I left you be when you told me to, Charlotte,” he says, “If you come here, you can stay long enough to say why you’re going.”

“Then I suppose I made a mistake in coming here. I’m sorry.”

Charlotte casts her eyes downward. She slips on one shoe, and then the other. 

“Something’s happened,” he says, “I know it has. Mrs. Quigley? Your mother? Are you in trouble?”

“It’s none of your concern,” she says.

“I could help you,” he says, “If you’d let me.”

She takes a breath, seeming to arrange her face in position.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Fine,” he says, his voice brusque, “But next time, if you only want a warm body, don’t come.”

She scoffs.

“Poor Mr. Marney. Don’t suppose you have much need of me for company. Lady Caroline takes care of that, doesn't she?"

She gestures to the room around them.

"She's set you up nicely here," she says, "Few whores could hope for better."

Caroline did provide the rooms, once she realized he had no place to stay. It's more than he could have asked for - the Reptons had never housed him, only kept him for nights and sent him away, albeit with heavy pockets. The place is well fitted out, all open space and fine furnishings. He's grateful to her, even knowing that in bald terms, it is only payment for work. Caroline staved the noose off for him, replenished his pockets, set him on his way. And if he is honest, he is grateful too that she provided him with company, in those drifting days after Charlotte sent him away. He knows it is meant to be the other way around, but he has never taken well to being alone. 

But gratitude is one thing, he thinks, even fondness, affection. All of that feels meager, compared to Charlotte Wells, standing in front of him, sharp-eyed and tensed like a lioness.

She was right, all those months ago. He really is a fool.

"We don't need to talk about her," he says.

"And what would she think of you bringing women here?" Charlotte laughs, "In her fine rooms for her fine man."

He doesn't bring _women_ here. Only her.

"She's never made claims to own me," he says shortly. 

"Then you are indeed lucky," she says, "Few harlots see such good fortune, Daniel. Or perhaps you haven't yet looked close enough at her."

"I think you should go, Charlotte," he says, "You've said enough."

She nods shortly, seeming almost to regret her words. She blinks, thrice, in quick succession, her mouth growing tight.

"I was the one who told her to come find you," she says softly, "I went to her house, after Mrs. Quigley got me out. She agreed to speak on your behalf. Didn't know she'd take her prize, but she has the right, hasn't she?"

His mouth goes dry.

In all this time, he had never thought of why Caroline had come. She had been so cold at Mrs. Quigley's, sharp and brittle. He hadn't thought. He hadn't thought at all.

"She didn't tell you that, did she?" Charlotte asks.

"No."

She nods. She's gathered her things together now, on a pile on the bed. She pauses a moment, shrugging into her dress. The white against the pale of her skin makes her appear spectral. Back in Galway, he and the other boys had dared each other to walk near the graveyard, one step in, two steps, further and further from the group. He had walked until he could see none of them, simply to prove something and thought he'd seen a shade, a pretty woman in flowing white who was gone as soon as she appeared. Later, he'd decided he imagined it.

He supposes it wouldn't do to tell her she reminds him of a thing in a graveyard. Is it the dress, or the quickness with which she passes?

"Well, now you see. I suppose I found you your fortune, without even meaning to. I can't owe for you more than that."

"You don't owe me anything." His voice is quiet.

She nods.

"Goodbye, Mr. Marney. I'll see you somewhere or other, I suppose."


End file.
